Moments We Shared Together
by JHWforever
Summary: John isn't the type to sit and listen to all the hate Sherlock receives. There's an oddly written advertisement in the newspaper which catches John's attention. This could be a chance to get Sherlock back. After all he still ha John's heart...
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**** This is a sequel to ' The Things Left Unsaid'. You can find it on my profile. I recommend reading it before you proceed to this.**

**Thank you so much for following the story and welcome to new readers!**

**Please review your thoughts or if you find any typo.**

**Enjoy! :)**

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**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANY CHARACTER. THEY ARE THE PROPERTY OF GENIUSES MARK GATISS AND STEVEN MOFFAT.**

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_Tick. Tick. Tick._

I could hear the clock ticking on the front wall. Steady and smooth. Somewhere a dripping tap made noises. A passing car's whoosh was disturbing the stillness of chilly night. My heart was running at a faster rate against the warmth of my palm. I took a couple of deep breaths through nose shutting the parted mouth. Staring blankly at the front wall, I tried hard not to think about what I just dreamed.

"Every night" letting out a sigh, I whispered to no one.

I shifted my sluggish body on the uncomfortable couch and waited for the heart to slow down. After a minute or two I threw my legs on the floor and tried to get up. _Damn. _Left leg cried out in pain. As if taking the hint, the left hand, too, started shaking. I looked at it helplessly. I almost forgot what it was like to have perfectly fine, painless body. I hit legs on the freezing ground to get out of the couch and made my way to the bathroom.

With what seemed like enormous efforts without the stick, I reached the bathroom. I turned the lights on blinding me for a moment. I took hold of the basin and turned the tap on. Some parts of the nightmare were still playing in my head. It was the same dream. The same dream I dreamt when I was in bed with Sherlock.

Oh, Sherlock. _Sherlock._

The name somehow made my leg hurt more and the hand tremble even more violently. I clenched and unclenched now-so-violently-trembling hand again and again. My therapist thinks this would work. I knew Sherlock wouldn't need any of her stupid tricks to make me feel better.

Every time I thought about Sherlock, no matter if it's the moments we shared together or just his name, my head flooded with all the things that I didn't say and do. How foolishly I stood there in front of the Bart's watching him say things that we both know he didn't mean. _How stupid was I?_ Only if I had a little more of brains I could have gone up on the ceiling and stop him playing whatever game he had on his mind. I felt guilt. I felt it so immensely that I still had not returned to 221B since the fall, locking me in Harry's house, running away from the reality. The reality was cruel, unbearable and hurting. Harry thinks I'm handling the things quite well. I don't understand what makes her think that. Certainly crying in the middle of the night or not going to the Bart's, flat or wherever his memories are attached don't help. I knew I was a coward. I was scared to go back to 221B. I was terrified to see the bed where once we had slept together and I was even more terrified to think of the kisses we shared in the bedroom.

My lip quivered. Ella, my therapist, thinks I shouldn't think about him because it just makes things worse. How would she know there is nothing else worth thinking but him? Everything about him was intriguing, sometimes bizarre and most of the times annoying. I would do anything to have him back, _anything at all._ I just needed to look for a sign, a miracle.

I made my way back to the couch, massaging my back, shoulders. It is going to be a long day tomorrow but I knew I wouldn't get a minute of sleep anymore. Army habits hardly go away. I grabbed my phone and laptop from the centre table. 7 unread texts. 3 from Lestrade, 2 from Sarah and 2 from Mycroft. I wondered if his tooth is troubling again.

**Mrs. Hudson called. Worried about you. - GL**

**And yeah, she asked me to move out his things, donate to school or orphanage. -GL**

**Do you want any of his things? Call me tomorrow. –GL**

_I want his every little thing. Too precious to throw out. Too many memories. _I thought. I had no idea where I would keep it or whether I could even go back to the flat. I kept reading.

**Mrs. Gupta's surgery is cancelled. Your shift starts at 9. –Sarah**

**How are you doing? How's the leg? –Sarah**

I wrote her a quick reply.

**Could you do me another favour? I need to sort out Sherlock's things tomorrow. Could you attend my patients? –JW**

I tapped phone impatiently. Sarah was a quick texter. Her reply beeped.

**Of course! Take your time. –Sarah**

_Take your time. _Why did everybody had to remind me that? I was taking too much time to get back on the track here. Why didn't anybody tell me _that_?!

**I owe you this one. Thank you so much – JW**

The next two were from Mycroft. I opened unwillingly.

**DI Lestrade tells me he's donating Sherlock's things. I would not like my brother's things go in the trash bags, unless it is cockroaches or human thumbs we're talking about. I'd see you tomorrow in 221B at sharp 9. –MH**

**It's time to move on, John. –MH**

Mycroft never really gave his piece of advice through texts. No matter how much I hated to agree with him but what he said was true. There had always been a part of me which continuously tried to convince me to go back to the flat. It had been four months after all. At times I would make up my mind, go up to the door of 221B but turn back, unable to proceed. I was not ready to face the place which held too many memories to fade away in just four months.

But this time it was different. I pretty well knew where Sherlock used to keep his things, which were worth saving like the diary where he wrote his deductions, laptop, the silky blue robe and what not. I had to go. I must.

I looked at the watch. It was 4.30 already. The dawn was breaking and a light shade of violet was filling the east edge. I opened my laptop. My blog had been counting more than it used to. People were commenting their support to Sherlock Holmes. I felt overwhelmed and confident that I was not the only one to believe in him. I tried to talk to Mycroft to clear Sherlock's tarnished image but he was unable to anything. It was so infuriating when he denied helping that I yelled at him in his own office, gave him threatening looks and stormed out to never see him again. Today was the first time I had heard from him. No matter what, I knew Mycroft Holmes cared for his brother.

How strange it may sound, but I was feeling better today even with the prospect of going back to 221B. All this time I ran away from the reality but not anymore. It wouldn't matter to me if I am the only one fighting to clear Sherlock's image, I would do it. He deserved this. I owed him my life after all.

* * *

I was reading newspaper when Harry entered the kitchen. Her eyes were clearly saying that she had been drinking again.

"Good morning"

" 'Morning. Tea's in the kettle." I told her not moving my eyes from the newspaper. She mumbled thanks. I was looking for a decent flat in London but none of the advertisements was appropriate. Either the rent was too high or too far from the work.

As I circled the appealing ones, I came across a strange advert. It said,

'A flatmate needed. Shouldn't be bothered by violin.

I'm lost without my blogger.

URGENT.'

My heart started accelerating. It couldn't be happening. Was I even reading it right? No, no, this is an awful, _awful_ coincidence. Why would anyone give such advertise in the paper? I looked for a contact number but there wasn't any. I read it over and over again, I could hear Sherlock's voice saying those lines so clear as if he's whispering in my ear. I grabbed my phone and hit the speed dial.

The phone rang for some time. I was being foolish to even try to call. This was all fooling, a terrible prank. Nonetheless I didn't hang up. Then a very familiar, deep like ocean voice spoke through the mobile,

'Leave a message'

That's it. Nothing more; but the voice made my insides clench. It had been forever since I heard his voice, an eternity it seemed like. I redialed with no hope of him receiving the phone but I could hear his voice at the very least.

'Leave a message'

I swallowed. I had no idea where Sherlock's mobile had gone after the fall. It had vanished from the rooftop. I had tried to get it back, pulled some strings, asked Lestrade to get it but in vain. I always thought there might be some clue in the phone to his actions. And now I read this weird advertisement and his phone is suddenly reachable though he doesn't receive it. This is too much to call it a coincidence. If I tell anyone about this I would only gain sympathized looks and I was tired of them. I was tired of hiding here in Harry's house and not doing anything.

"John?" Harry had already been seated across the table shaking my hand looking concerned. _Not that look again_, I yelled in my head.

"I said, do you want to go to the movies with me? Clara's coming too" Yes, the last thing I needed was a chick flick with Harry and Clara.

"I can't. I need to go back to, er, my flat. To collect the things" I tried to sound polite as much as my sanity allowed.

"Oh my god, that is not a wise thing to do, Johnny. Look at you, you are devastated!"

I pressed my lips in a hard line to keep myself from shouting.

"I'm okay, Harry. I can't live here for the rest of my life. I'm doing fine." Before Harry could say anything, I got up from the chair shoving it back into its place a bit too harshly.

I was out of the house at sharp 8.30, got a cab in five minutes giving me a feeling that everything was working out as if it's all a part of some unknown plan. I texted Lestrade to expect me there in five minutes. For the first time in last four months I was feeling elated. I smiled and felt my muscles loosening up, feeling oddly relaxed as the taxi pulled in front of 221B, Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

I looked at the familiar door of the flat. My heart beat was quickened. Same colour, same doorknob, nothing had changed. Except for the fact that the person who made this flat livable was no longer in this world. Even if I couldn't see through the door I knew the house would be dull as anything. I remembered the times when we got back to home after running on the streets of London in the middle of the night chasing lunatic murderers. It was my home after all, the place where I went back to no matter at the end of the day.

"Sir?" cabbie knocked the glass to pull me out of reverie. I paid him, told him to keep the change and got out of the cab. Opening the door with the key I had never given back to Mrs. Hudson, I entered the house. It was dimly lit. I could hear distant chatter upstairs. It should have felt odd to be back here, but I felt fine. I wondered if it had something to do with the advertisement.

Climbing up the stairs I reached the door to the living room. Lestrade was shouting in his phone. Mrs. Hudson had been masked and was throwing the contents from the smelly fridge in a trash bag. Disgust evident on her face. I hesitated at the door, waiting for them to detect my presence. Donovan came from the kitchen, some bloody specimen in her hand and looked at the door to find me deliberating at the step. The sight of her made my insides boil.

"Oh, Dr. Watson. Didn't expect you'd come." Lestrade turned to look where I stood. Donovan was certainly not pleased by my presence. She looked at me as if I was even more disgusting that the specimen she was holding away from her as much as her body allowed. The feeling was mutual. I conveyed my loathing for her through expressions and then addressed Lestrade.

" Nice to see you, Greg"

"You too, John. Come in, come in. The movers will be here in an hour. Keep whatever you want to. There's whole bunch of hazardous waste in the fridge. How did you live here?" He frowned as he led me to the kitchen.

"Oh, dear John. How are you doing?" Mrs Hudson said throwing her arms around my shoulder and pulling me in a bone crashing hug. I hugged her back as I replied pleasantries. When she pulled back she had tears in her eyes.

"It was terrible living here alone, with you and him gone." She said mopping her cheeks. I took her hand in my hands and smoothed wrinkled fingers of hers.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson, I will be taking the room upstairs if that's not a problem"

"Oh no, no problem at all! I would really like to have you back. What would this old lady do all alone in this house…" She trailed off. I turned to Lestrade.

"What is she doing here? Donovan?" I said with a voice that was filled with disgust, hatred and frustration on their epics.

"She volunteered. Look John, what happened is happened and I don't think there is any point going through that again" He said with concern. He got the idea that I was about to hit her head with whatever object my hand could reach to.

"She is the reason why we're here, Lestrade. She is the reason why _he is not here_. Get her out of here before I do something really unpleasant." I pinched my nose bridge to keep my temper in control.

"I can't. She's no longer my subordinate." I opened my mouth to argue but failed.

"You do believe in him, don't you?"I said quietly after a moment. He took some time to answer.

"I don't think I'm allowed to say this but I do. It just doesn't feel right to think he was pretending all this time." He attempted to smile but failed. The idea of Lestrade being on my side was encouraging enough.

"Let's get started, shall we?" He turned away before I could say anything more. I followed his lead and once again we were back again in the living room. Donovan was busy with something in the corner and I tried to avoid seeing what she was up to.

I looked around the room to find many objects that I wanted to keep. I started with the skull. A cigarette carton was still hidden in its mouth. Sherlock knew where I used to hide it. I wondered if this was one of his tricks to deceive me. I smiled as I moved forward to the shelf. Pocketing smaller objects and putting the bigger ones in a corner. I slid my hand behind the mirror and found a pocket notepad. I turned its pages and found Sherlock's handwritten notes of the cases in every little space the notepad allowed. Why didn't he just use his laptop? While I gathered things around the room I thought about the advertisement in the paper. 'A flatmate needed. Shouldn't be bothered by violin. I'm lost without my blogger. URGENT'. If it was really Sherlock writing (even the idea sounded ridiculous in my head now) how was I supposed to contact him? He had left no other clue. Why would he write 'a flatmate needed'? If we assume for a second that he was underground then why on this earth would he need to write for a flatmate? Nobody except me knew about getting-lost-without-blogger dialogue of his. It was addressed to me; I was getting more and more confident when I thought about all these possibilities.

But I still had no idea how I was to contact a supposedly dead man. I scratched my head hoping it would spill out any idea.

"John, have you seen this?" Lestrade called out from Sherlock's bedroom. I almost tripped on a pile of books as I ran to the bedroom.

"What?" I peeked over Lestrade's shoulder to see what he was looking at, evidently smiling.

It was a withered photo of a boy of five or six years old. He was wearing weirdest clothes imagined. A long pointed hat was sitting on the curly jungle of the kid's hair. The boy in the photo was not smiling, he had some serious expression as if he was about to attack every person in the vicinity. The eyes quite familiar and the cheekbones not yet so pronounced as I remembered.

"Is it some costume party?" Lestrade laughed.

"I don't think so. Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when little. There. There is the eye patch." I pointed to a black strip in Sherlock's defensive hands.

"He's well into character, isn't he?" I nodded in agreement.

"I'm surprised he still kept the photograph." I smiled looking at the tiny figure of Sherlock. He had those same, penetrating blue eyes. And I must admit he did have a sense for fashion.

"I sense you'd want to keep it" I took the photo from his hands and smoothed its corners. So many things I wanted to keep and this I cannot just give away. I pocketed the photo with utmost care. I will have it framed one day.

I returned back to the living room. I had not even covered one fourth of the room and yet the corner was full of things. In fact I had not thrown away a single thing.

"Lestrade, I was thinking" I reached the bedroom door again "I don't want to give up any of his things"

He looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Not even the microscope and stuff?"

"No I don't. I just can't. He loved his experiments and equipment more than he loved anyone in this universe. I'd like to keep it all. And after all I'll be moving back here. I might as well keep things as they were before he left. I'm ready to pay the rent for this floor too. I'll go talk to Mrs Hudson" I left the room immediately before Lestrade could reply.

Mrs Hudson happily agreed to keep his things as long as the cockroaches, lizards, thumbs, bees and every other hazardous specimen were thrown out. She didn't even ask me for rent of this floor. "This is where he belonged. I can't charge for it" She said before breaking into unrecoverable sobs.

I insisted Lestrade to stay for a couple of drinks. Donovan, who expected an invitation too, received a bang of the living door on her face as soon as she was out of the door's range. I grabbed a couple of drinks and glasses and put it on the dining table.

"I found his diary on the upper shelf" Lestrade said taking a gulp of beer. I froze. I looked up to his face with wide alarmed eyes.

"No, no, I didn't read it-God- I don't want to know what he wrote in his personal diary. He had written quite a threatening note on the front page." He chuckled. I relaxed my tensed shoulder and took a sip from the bottle.

"He was quite a good lad, wasn't he, apart from being a git 99.99% of the time" He said smiling to his bottle, not meeting my eyes.

"Yes, he was"

"Why do you think he did all that? Jumping off the rooftop? There must be something that made him do that, don't you think? I was pretty sure there was. Moriarty shot himself on the rooftop too. I just don't get it." He shook his head.

"It's Sherlock we are talking about. I wish he left a note or something"

"He did, didn't he? I don't believe a single thing he said on the phone though"

"Of course, I don't. He didn't deserve this, any of this. I wish I could talk to him now. Ask him what why he did it" I said with head lolling from shoulders.

Something dawned on me as I spoke the words. If I had to contact Sherlock, what would I do? I grabbed the paper from the next chair and read the advert again till I knew what was needed to be done.

"What's up?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows raised. He tried to peek in the newspaper but I yanked it away from his reach.

"It's nothing, nothing" I got up from the table to hide the paper where nobody will look. Lestrade finished his drink and got up to leave.

"It was nice seeing you, John. If you need anything just give me a call, alright?" He said shaking my hand and other patting my shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, sure" I said returning the handshake.

As soon as Lestrade left, I found my way up in my room. Dumping my rucksack in a corner, I walked upto the bed. Surprisingly it had newly washed, crisp sheet and nicely puffed up pillows. I thanked Mrs Hudson in my mind and launched the sluggish body on smelling oh-so-nice bed.

After a minute or two I heard a light knock on the door. I groaned.

"Come in"

"Oh sorry dear. I came by to ask if you were staying for lunch. You can join me downstairs if you'd like" Mrs Hudson said first apologetically then with concern. My bowels grumbled at the mention of food.

"Oh yes, I was thinking to order chinese anyway. Sure"

"Come down in an hour" She said smiling and left the room. I sat on the bed for some time thinking about the first time Sherlock had come here to sleep. What a lame excuse he had given. He stayed through the night and many more to come. I wondered why I had objected it in the first place. I felt remorse for not telling him how much he meant to me. After Moriarty's return we had hardly spoken. The night before his death he was acting different, I had sensed it. If I had just put more energy to make him tell me, he would have and we wouldn't have been in this mess. Oh how much I hated this.

Suddenly I remembered Lestrade talking about Sherlock's diary. I rushed down the stairs to Sherlock's room, skipping two or three steps. Pushing open the door I ran straight to the messy bookshelf and found the diary which I had seen many a times him using it.

I turned withering cover of the diary. God, it looked ancient. Then there was a folded paper bearing impressions of something written in neon coloured pen inside. I unfolded and straightened it on my palm.

'_PROPERTY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES._

_DON'T EVEN DARE TO PROCEED IF NOT HAVING PERMISSION TO._

_I HAVE MY WAYS TO IDENTIFY INTRUDERS._

_KEEP IT BACK BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE._

_YOU WILL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.'_

I broke into laughter. Only Sherlock could do this. No wonder Lestrade hadn't dared to open it. I, too, hesitated for a second but did anyway. The opening page had no date at all. It was a case of some serial murderer which I assumed, must have been from when we hadn't met. He had rambled on how the murderer must have a French beard and explained in detail the reasons behind the deduction. I rushed through the pages to see if he had mentioned my name. It was not until only last three pages had left.

_Dr John Watson dreams usually (93% of the nights, that is, when he gets to sleep at least 7 hour) about ice creams, jams, girls/women in long gowns or sometimes about ongoing case. Otherwise the dreams are about getting shot in the shoulder or in the chest while trying to save some unknown people from unknown bunch of persons. In those dreams, after 16 nights of nightmares I deduce, he runs in a lonely alley with no one following but paranoia. He feels secured when he has arm round his shoulder and another rubbing on his chest. After waking up, he struggles to catch his breath but fails to understand he needs to drink water. During the nightmares he says inaudible things and while dreaming normal, happier dreams he talks about jams, sweaters, ice-creams and things mentioned above. Obviously he doesn't remember any part of dreams next morning._

I frowned. _I do not dream about jams or women in long gowns. _How on earth can he deduce that? On the same page right after his deductions of my sleeping habits, he had written a paragraph about, well, sex. He had gone well deep into the details ranging from what time his adrenaline level started increasing to where I liked to be touched. It was all raw. When I read it from his perspective I feel it had no emotional depth as I had felt it. I turned the page.

The first thing I noticed on the two adjacent pages was the scribbled writing in some sign language. I looked carefully but couldn't make out what was written. Then I noticed different quotes, names or signs whatever may be, were joined by thin, fading lines. All those were concentrated on one thing in the middle. As looked closely, almost touching nose to the paper, I saw written in cursive handwriting of Sherlock's 'MORIARTY'. I backed away from the journal to have a better look and then I realized it was everything about Moriarty's various businesses. Believe me, I never imagined so many names, places, businesses were dancing one Moriarty's order.

"John dear?" Mrs Hudson called from her kitchen.

"In a minute" I called back, keeping the journal on the shelf. As I turned I noticed Sherlock's bed covered in visible layer of dust. I wondered why Mrs Hudson hadn't cleaned his bed.

"Food is delicious, Mrs Hudson. Thanks for having me over." I smiled rubbing her hand.

"No matter, dear. It's the least I could do." She said smiling apologetically. "You two made a dashing couple." She tried keeping sobs away from her voice. I didn't disagree.

As I turned to leave I wished her a good night.

"Thanks for setting up my bed, Mrs Hudson" I pecked her on cheek.

"Oh I didn't make your bed" She said alarmed "If I had known you were staying I would have"  
I froze

"You didn't make my bed?"

"No I didn't"

"Has anybody been in my room?"  
"No, I don't think so. What's the matter?"

Sherlock's bed was covered in dust but not mine. It was as if somebody had been sleeping there everynight. Was he here? I gulped.

"Nothing, nothing. I must get going, er, goodnight"

_I have to contact Sherlock Holmes anyhow._


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Welcome back, guys! I'm so sorry for not updating all these days. I got hurt in an accident and fractured arm. So I'm pretty well bed-ridden. I will post the next chapter as early as possible. **

**Hope you like this chapter. : 3**

**Please do let me know if you find any typo.**

**PS:People who reviewed and supported my writing, thank you so much. You guys make my days, weeks, decades! :') **

**This chapter is dedicated to ShadowWriter2199 ^_^**

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That night I didn't sleep well. In fact I didn't sleep at all. Even the slightest amount of noise or movement would keep me alert. I had kept the window open in anticipation that a black figure with collar standing up and coat billowing against the wind would climb in. Nothing happened. Fading curtains blew in the chilly gush of air. After the clock stuck 2, I got up and checked day's schedule on the hospital's site. The shift started at 1 and had to attend two minor surgeries. I tapped fingers on the laptop searching my brain for some reason so I can ditch the hospital. When I couldn't find any, I decided to attend. The debts were getting higher anyway. Later that I went to the blog and replied to some of comments, smiled when people shared their stories of 'The Great Sherlock Holmes' saw some really funny gifs of Sherlock with words glittering in the background 'Keep Calm And Support Sherlock Holmes'. Somebody had also signed the petition for the truth which the government had concealed all these months. I just wished people kept supporting until I find Sherlock.

I, for the first time, was so sure that Sherlock was alive. I had proofs this time. All those times I imagined being with him after his death was a complete a different case. _I wasn't imagining this._ And if somebody was playing a prank, they were as good as dead. I spent the rest of the night going through old blogs and Sherlock's anonymous comment, which portrayed nothing but hate when I criticized him or made a grammatical error.

I closed the laptop and buried my head in my hands. The chilling wind from the open window had lowered the temperature of the room considerably. I was still not decided if I was ready to contact Sherlock yet. I wasn't even sure yet if it was Sherlock writing that weird classified. I had to take a chance nonetheless. I can't miss out on any tiny detail that could lead me Sherlock or the truth.

A soft murmur of the alarm sang from the bedside table. I opened eyelids as much as I could. I was draped under the load of sheet which I never remember taking. I, with massive irritation, pulled my hand from under the sheets and grabbed the phone. After turning the alarm off I stole a glance at the clock. I sat straight upright as I understood it was half past ten, making my vision blur for few moments. I went straight to the bathroom pulling my wobbly legs along. I skipped shower tucked in a mustard coloured jumper. Shoving a mouthful of bread-jam-butter sandwich I ran out of the door.

I wandered along the street to find a cab. After going halfway, I decided I would reach faster if I just ran to the Express Daily editor office.

I huffed as I pushed open the door. Hot hair whooshed on my red face. It was comforting. I calmed my breath and then walked to the receptionist.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?" the receptionist said with an ear-to-ear smile.

"Er, I have a classified to be published tomorrow"

"Go this way, sir" I walked towards where she pointed, through an antique wooden passage to a large room with numerous cubicles. I approached an elderly woman sitting behind the desk shuffling papers in a great hurry. I stood there waiting for her to notice my presence. She didn't even look up and continued to do whatever she was doing.

"Excuse me-"

"What?" She barked.

"Er I want to give an advertisement in classifieds-"

"Fill this up" She shoved a piece of paper in my hand which looked like an application. She started shuffling the papers vigorously and I took the hint and went away.

I filled the form, wrote the advertisement but thought twice before approaching the lady. She seemed even more fuming than before. As I attempted for her attention, she drew her hand forward and indicated for the application without taking eyes off her work. She took a minute to examine what I had written

"What's this?" I knew she's thinking I'm some lunatic. I'll just play along.

"Application you told me to fill-"

"I get that" She sounded more irritated if that was possible at all "What kind of advertisement is this?"

"I'm looking for a flatmate" I said with a wide grin. She looked me up and down with an expression you see when a mother is about to yell at her five year old for bringing in the muddy shoes.

"That would be 6 pounds" She said eyeing me suspiciously. I gave her the money and left as fast as I could.

I still had an hour to get to the hospital. I got a cab and headed to St. Barts.

* * *

It was different being back here again even though nothing had changed. Molly worked at her table without noticing my entrance. The counter where Sherlock worked was tidy. Molly must have done the cleaning.

"Busy, eh?" I said standing behind Molly, peeking over her shoulder. She jumped at least half a foot at the sound.

"Oh, Dr Watson- sorry, I thought it's-" She broke off abruptly. I raised eyebrows waiting for her to continue. When she didn't I moved to Sherlock's counter.

"I'm here for Sherlock's things. Do you have any idea where they might be?" I said opening and closing the small cupboards, drawers under the table.

"Why, did he ask you to fetch them?" I looked up with surprise. She looked cautious, frightened and somewhat alert.

"What did you say?"

"No- nothing, I- nothing , really, I was blabbering-" I ran to her as fast as my throbbing limp allowed.

"You know something about him" more of a statement.

"What- who are you talking about?" She smiled helplessly trying to cover her tremble.

"Is he alive?" I asked her grabbing her shoulders in my tight grasp as she tried to slip away. She shook her head.

"Molly. You have to tell me, is he alive? Has he been here? Where is he now?" My voice was rising with each word.

"No I don't know- it was a mistake- I didn't mean to- John you're hurting me" Her face twisted in pain tears tickling in her eyes. I indeed was hurting her. I released her arm. She took few steps back involuntarily. I pinched my nose bridge with my trembling hand. _Calm down_, I reminded myself.

"I'm sorry- it's just- I thought he's- never mind" I stopped, words failing me. "I'm sorry, Molly, I didn't mean to hurt you. I need to go" I turned on wheels.

I stopped a moment at the door.

"But if you know anything about him or if you know where he is, tell him I-" a lump formed in my throat making hard to speak "Just tell him to come back, will you?" I completed helplessly. My own eyes were moist now. To avoid further embarrassment I rushed out of the door.

* * *

I was sleep deprived. Last three nights I was in bed only to follow the habit of being in bed like most people do. I prayed and did every bloody trick Ella thought that might help me sleep but failed big time. I lay there on this side or that, on back or on belly but sleep would never come anyway. Eventually I give and get ready to leave for work.

Advertisement I had given in the daily, I hoped, must have gone unnoticed. It was in far last column in between two huge ads of some lavish spa and suburb row houses. Now I even hate to look at it. It sounded too dumb. I could have thought thoroughly.

'_Flat mate needed as urgently as possible._

_Must be educated enough to know Earth goes round the sun'_

I frowned. If Sherlock was ever to come back he was going to make fun of my choice or just be mad for bringing up his lack of general knowledge. But it's been almost a month already and I hadn't heard anything from Sherlock. I tried to contact Molly but she refused to talk. Guess who's to be blamed? Maybe I was reading too much into things or somebody was messing with me. Believe me, I even considered the possibility of having multiple personalities and it was me who gave that ad. Makes sense, doesn't it? I was suffering from hyperventilation, insomnia, trembling hands, hurting leg and what not. I am going to talk to Ella, my therapist, today; just to make sure she directs her therapy in way to cure an ex-army doctor suffering from multiple personality disorder who has lost his dearest one recently. God, that made a deadly combination.

But, even though I had given up on my hope, I still checked classified pages, just in case.


	4. Chapter 4

"So tonight, it is!" Dory said cheerfully.

"I can't-"

"I will pick you up by, say, 6? I know where you live" She said with a wink. I tried again to open my mouth but she threw her arms around me and brushed her lips on mine. Before I recover, she was out of sight.

I sighed, letting my shoulders drop and cursed under my breath for what I had gotten myself into. In usual circumstances I would be over the top, in seventh heaven, on cloud number nine or whatever phrase that could describe my immense joy for getting asked out by a woman fairly of my age, single, attractive and with every quality a man looks for. Dory was indeed appealing. She was intelligent, independent, led a legal firm. We met in the hospital as I was attending to her mother, a hernia patient. It was late at night when she came rushing to the hospital with her mother. I had asked a nurse to look after her as I took her mother to emergency theatre for surgery. A minor one. But Dory did think of me as a life-saving-hero-of-a-kind and dropped me back at my place the following morning when she saw me waiting for a cab. She started visiting me even after her mother was discharged. And when she learned that I was the same Dr John Watson, the blogger of Sherlock Holmes the only consulting detective, she practically jumped with joy in her seat in the restaurant. I concluded she was one of his fans.

But now she had asked me out and I had no intentions whatsoever to go out on a date with her; or matter of fact, with anybody. It has been eight months since I wrote that classified declaring publicly my idiocy. I never went to Ella again. Whenever I would see her it would dawn on me why I was there. It just made things worse.

To tell the truth I hadn't been out on a date since Sherlock died. I never felt like it, given that I was still too much into Sherlock to think of anybody else taking his place. Technically, we were never in relationship but I don't know why, I always think I'm betraying him in a way or another. I was still mourning over my loss but crying had been replaced by depression most of the time. Mrs Hudson had been very kind to me all these months. She made me cookies, cakes, pies and what not. Each time she brings something she would repeat the punch line "Landlady, John, not housekeeper". The pity in her eyes had yet not left; I wonder when it will. 221B Baker Street looked messy as ever. I no longer care where I keep my clothes, whether I do the dishes or not. I eat only when I don't remember eating in past few hours. I have kept every single thing of Sherlock's in usual places as much I remember. In many ways I was like Sherlock now.

At some point of life I know this has to stop; this should have stopped by now. Crying, depression, trembling hand, hurting leg. I had had enough. Dory was a new chapter in my life; I thought Ella would say so. I certainly don't think that way.

I completed night shift by 9 in the morning. Exhausted I entered the house. Mrs Hudson was chattering with somebody behind the door. I went upstairs and threw my body on the couch. It smelled dusty. Well who here cares anyway. I heard hurried footsteps coming along the stairs to the living room.

"Oh dear, are you okay?" I must be looking like a wreck, I concluded. Obvious. "I'll make you a cuppa" I felt so much gratitude that I lifted my head and watched her hurrying towards kitchen with eyes full of appreciation, letting my heavy exhausted head fall again.

Mrs Hudson came back with steaming kettle. She cleared the mess on the table muttering to herself. I didn't care to listen. This is the way it's always been. She talked half to me and half to herself. After Sherlock's death she had hit with great grief but everybody thought I was the one who needed their support. She needed it as much as I. I felt bad for her.

"John, dear, why don't you take some days off work? Change is always nice" Her brows were pulled together with concern.

"I'm doing fine, Mrs Hudson. I have to start acting like an adult now. I can't mourn all the time" I said getting up, voice almost inaudible. I thumped my head in my hands, rubbing them all over my face, seeking for warmth.

"There's no rush.. No rush at all" She poured me some tea.

"I'm moving on. In fact, I've got a date tonight." She stopped midway while pouring the tea. So I wasn't the only one who thought the idea wasn't good enough. I felt like betraying, again, every time I said or thought about the date. Mrs Hudson recovered after eyeing me wide eyed for some moments and then continued with her work.

"That's good-good to hear" She slid the cup towards me along with a dish of cookies. When we were finished with our tea, I sat in an awkward silence. We never really had bonded when Sherlock was alive. I regretted it, along with many things.

"I should be get going" She picked up the cups, dish and dumping them in the sink started towards the door.

"Oh dear, I almost forgot. You've got some letters" She held up a bunch of envelopes from the counter where she must have left them when coming in. I got up hardly willing to see the bills. Mrs Hudson, muttering, closed the door behind her.

I grabbed the letters and tossed them on the couch. Not at all interested. At least not now. I went to my bedroom- well Sherlock's bedroom- to search something decent to wear for tonight. I opened the cupboard where I crammed messily into my clothes along with Sherlock's. I pulled out a navy blue shirt along with a maroon coloured sweater. Deadly combination. Who cared anyway? All I had to do tonight was scare Dory off so she wouldn't bother to ask me out again. I set the clothes on the bed, deciding whether to iron the shirt or not. Why take efforts to iron if I'm anyway scaring her off? I gave up the thought. Throwing my body on the bed, I slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

_Beep._

Did something beep? I rolled over. Too tired to open eyes.

Another beep.

"Leave me alone" I murmured.

Now the phone started vibrating frantically.

I groaned taking some efforts to open eyes. I pulled out the phone from the back pocket and threw it across the wall. It hit the ground with a thud. Feeling oddly peaceful I pulled on the duvet and snuggled under it.

_Beep._

"Son of a bitch!" I yelled. Now the ringtone started ringing rather too loudly in peacefully silent afternoon. I sat up and stared at the blinking, shrieking phone. _Why- God- why can't people leave me alone?_

It stopped ringing for a moment letting the silence feel the atmosphere again before it started beeping frantically. Exasperated I crawled to the wall where the mobile hit and picked it up. 6 text messages, 3 missed calls all from Dory Dunbrook.

I controlled an impulse to throw it out of the window.

**Hey there! You are coming tonight right?  
**

**I can't wait!**

**There?**

**What time should I pick you up?**

**I'm so excited!  
**

**Hello, John?**

I replied:

**I think we have decided everything already. JW**

Was it rude? Well.

**Yeah, crosschecking. I'm excited to see you outside the hospital!  
**

She can't get discouraged, can she? I put the phone on silent mode and threw it on the bed. I need to get it repaired now.

It was 4.30 already. I boiled some water for tea. I wasn't even hungry. When did I eat properly last time? I chucked the thought as it occupied my brains too much.

Turning on the TV I settled with a steaming mug on the couch. I surfed through channels and found not a single thing interesting. _Was the TV always so boring? _I turned it off. _What did I use to do when Sherlock was alive?_ I wondered. It seems like whole another life.

I found the envelopes lying by. I picked them up. A letter from Harry (why didn't she just email me?), one from life insurance company, phone bill and there at last was one thin envelope. Blank. Nothing was written on it. I tore it open, tossing the remaining aside. It wasn't heavy. I turned it upside down thinking something will slip out. Nothing did. I shook it vigorously then inserted my hand in. Nothing was in the envelope. I tore the envelope. Who had sent it? As I tore it down to little pieces, I saw something written in black ink. It was not on the outer side of the envelope but inside it. Handwriting looked oddly familiar. By the time I had tore it into many bits. My heart was pounding faster. With trembling hands I started to put it all together.

_CHALK, ASHPHALT, BRICK DUST, VEGETATION, PGPR._

_6 o'clock._

_This couldn't be happening._

My vision went blurry. I rubbed palms on my sweating face.

_This is it, isn't it? He is back. Sherlock is back._

I glanced at wristwatch. 5.10. I knew exactly where I had to go.

* * *

The cab halted right in front of the factory. I paid the cabbie, told him to keep the change and rushed out. The door creaked as I pushed it open with a trembling hand. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears. I strained all of my senses. It was quite inside except for the sound of tapping of cane on floor. As the door shut behind me it was complete dark inside. I pulled out my phone and started towards the other end of the hall in the maximum light the phone could offer. I had no idea what I was going to find or if it was someone from Scotland Yard playing a prank. My eyes were watering by now trying to adjust to the low light. It was so quite as if no one had been here after the abduction. I kept moving.

I had no idea what to expect. I, of course, wished and craved to see Sherlock. But crippling on the third floor with no sign of a slightest movement had deemed my hopes considerably. I reached the half built wall behind which the abducted ambassador kids were hiding long ago in alternate universe. Nobody there.

"Sher-Sherlock?" I said in a low voice. So low that not even a person next me would hear it.

"Sherlock?" Louder and clearer.

No response.

"Sherlock, please come out" My voice trembled no matter how hard I tried to smooth it. "I know you are out there"  
I hardly believed those words.

I glanced at wristwatch. 6.27 pm. Just 27 minutes late. He might come.

After much calling and wandering through half built, dusty construction with vigorously shaking hand and throbbing leg I sat on the floor resting on a column, exhausted. But what was bothering me the most was the disappointment. Again. I hadn't been excited this much since like what I remember. This time I indeed thought Sherlock would show up. Or at the very least some explanation for his suicide. Nothing. Again I was left alone, unaided. Why is this happening to me? I pulled the taped note from my pocket. The handwriting on the chit was so closely resembled Sherlock's. Who was doing this and why? I, for a great deal of time, have considered I was making up this stuff. Now that classified written in daily eight months ago, this note have actually making me to accept this is me who is doing this. MPD, maybe?

But this handwriting- I can't copy it like Sherlock, can I? Don't MPD patients accept the other personality like their own? Is this the case with me? I thought if I remember any blank span of time where I don't remember what I did. All I could remember was shift in the hospital, sitting in my armchair staring blankly at nothing. That is all I did. There was a possibility I was imagining this all. A very strong possibility.

Tears had filled my eyes making vision blurry. No, I won't cry. I don't want Sherlock to see me crying.

But he wasn't coming back.

I rested my head on the column. I don't know how much time I spent there. My phone beeped. Dory.

Oh God.

I get a date after almost a year and half and I forget about it. I didn't bother to read her texts though. I wasn't particularly excited about this date either. I hoped this would stop her coming to the hospital and asking me out again and again.

I peeked at the clock. 8.32 pm. How long was I here? It was dark outside. Distant street lamps were sparkling. I needed to head back. It was a bad idea and it will haunt for next god know how many months.

* * *

Cab stopped right in front of 221B. I got out and paid the cabbie, taking as much time as I could. Right behind the door was my sad, uninteresting, _tedious _life was waiting. The moment I open the door, I knew the time would stop dead; People will continue with their lives and I would just survive.

I pushed open the door to the dark house. No sign of Mrs H, I noticed. The only source of light was coming from up the stairs from the living room. Had Mrs Hudson been cleaning? Likely.

Ever slowly I climbed the stairs; my mind yelling at me to run away from this place.

I struggled to get out of jumper at the doorstep. Once it was removed I turned to face the room. I was sure it would be empty just like always.

But not this time.

Sherlock, standing right next to the couch by the window, stared down at me. The same scarf that I saw getting ruined with spurting blood from his head at the pavement of St Bart's. The same coat with collar standing up which I had seen any number of times. The same set of eyes, too deep, too shallow at the same time. The same curls, cheekbones, pale skin.

The same Sherlock I had seen in my nightmares with eyes closed and open.

He didn't move from his place; neither did I. His hands stuffed in his pockets. I gulped down the sob that threatened to escape.

Now I had started _seeing_ Sherlock. Was it a ghost? Or just my imagination?

I rubbed my fingers on my tired eyes hoping the ghost or whatever it was would be gone once I open them.

It didn't. Sherlock was rooted right there.

"Oh God- No, no no!" I cried not really minding the tears anymore.

"John-" It started to come towards me.

"No! NO! GO AWAY!" I waved him off. I knew it would be harder if it came any near. This was bad enough.

"John. I'm ba-"

"JUST GO AWAY WHATEVER YOU ARE!" I bellowed. It stopped dead midway. "Go, please." I pleaded between in shaky voice.

"John- No! COME BACK, JOHN" It started to follow me as I ran back to the stairs.

And then it gripped my elbow. The touch was solid and electric. He made me face him.

"I'm real, John. I'm back." He waited until my breathing slowed though it never attended the normal pace. I looked from his face to his hand tightening on my elbow. It was too real.

"This cannot- You were de- The grave- I saw you dying" I croaked.

"I had to. I wanted you to believe me I was dead. I'm not dead John. You can feel my touch, don't you? John this is real" I shrugged his hand off, unsuccessfully. "Ghosts don't exist, John" He tried at last when I still kept struggling.

"You were dead- I saw you- The dead pulse" I kept muttering.

"I can explain everything, John" I looked up in his eyes, those familiar eyes which haunted my dreams. "I'm sorry"  
"Sorry?" I laughed "You are _sorry_? For what? For being dead? For making my life hell? For leaving me behind _all alone_? FOR WHAT, SHERLOCK?" I bellowed. My voice echoed in the empty house.

"Everything, John. I needed to protect you. That's why-"

"You jumped off the Bart's, did you?" I completed for him. "you made me see it. You made me _see you die_" Now my voice was shaking.

"It was necessary" His hand dropped to his side.  
"And it wasn't necessary to tell me, was it? Who am I anyway?"

"John, don't be dramatic-"

"You bastard" I held back the curses that were queuing up in my head. _One at a time._

"Take it easy, John" He said taking a step back looking at my fisting fingers.

"You lied to me. ALL. THESE. MONTHS"

"I know you want to hit me now, John, but just give me a warning. At least I can prep-"

BAM.

My hand thumped across his perfectly shaped jaw. He took more steps back in the living room, now rubbing his jaw, stretching his mouth, wincing in pain.

"That's what I wa-"

I punch him again squarely on his each cheekbones.

For all I had to expect, I hadn't thought he would smirk on each blow.

That was enough to make me go wild. I started punching in his guts, finger balled. When he covered his stomach with his impossibly pale hands, I started slapping him across the face, arms, legs, wherever I could reach. He was slowly backing off to a corner, exactly where I could trap him and hit him as much as I wanted.

"John, you can stop n-" Another punch. "-ow." He completed the sentence trying to hold back the moan. When the hitting still didn't stop Sherlock tried to encircle his arms around my should. I couldn't hit him properly when my hands didn't get much of space to gain momentum. That's when I realized my hands were hurting too.

"It's okay, John. I'm fine. You are fine." He pulled me closer in his grasp as I weakly continued to protest. He squeezed my head in his shoulder with his fingers lacing in my hair. He rested his nose on my temple. I could feel the air escaping as he breathed. The distinct smell of Sherlock Holmes filled my nose and that was the only thing I could sense around me. As if getting stuck with a massive blow of a rugby ball, I realised Sherlock was here. After more than a year and he hadn't left. Yet.

I broke down in his arms. He pulled me into him harder and stronger. I no longer held back the tears that were edging my eyes for a long time.

"It's alright now, John" He murmured in my hair. But I didn't stop till I was exhausted and couldn't feel my senses. When I was done, I withdrew from his hold to look at him. For the first time I realised he had bruises covering his face apart from the one I had caused which were reddening now. He had a long cut across his brow. I traced my fingers along his arm, pulling away the fabric. He was practically covered in purple-red patches all over him. I winced at the sight.

"Apparently, gangsters like to hit punches." He said trailing behind my fingers. "Tedious."

I ignored the remark.

"I'll get you something-"

"It's okay, John. These are three months old. Turns out I'm not healed fast." He made it impossible for me to move when his hand grabbed my wrist.

"John, I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please"

Evidently these were the hardest words Sherlock had ever said.

When I didn't respond he let his hands fall to his sides. "Moriarty had his assassins aiming on Mrs H, Lestrade and you. I had to jump off." He looked at his feet avoiding eye contact. "Molly helped. We faked the death certificate. You have to understand, John, it was necessary for your safety. I was running 'round the world trying to kill Moriarty's people. Mycroft told me it was essential. If it helps, I'm saying sorry"

I wasn't listening. So Mycroft knew. And _Molly_.

The anger that had replaced by the pain, agony and grief returned.

"So everybody knew but me?" I pulled away from him.

"Not everybody John, only Molly and Mycroft. I needed you to believe I was dead"

"You never tried to tell me you were alive, Sherlock. All this time-" My voice started to shake "All this time I was mourning over you, Sherlock, do you have any idea?" I was shaking my head, images of the last year pulsing through my head.

"I'm sorry, John, I really am. And I tried to contact you when I was in London. Didn't you see the classified? I thought you would."

"I did reply to it." I mumbled.

"I couldn't have known, I had leave for Berlin the same day." He said. "Look at me, John" I didn't because I knew if I did I wouldn't able to hold the tears. The last thing I wanted was him to see me in tears.

"John"

"I'm not looking at you Sherlock. Things don't go the way you plan always. And I don't have to listen to anybody. Go away"

He waited for me to continue. I didn't.

"When I sent Mrs Hudson away to her sister's tonight, I didn't think you wouldn't want me here anymore, John" He waited for a moment."But if that's what you want then I will go away. Looks like you regret the time we spent together"

I looked up instantly in his eyes.

"I'm sorry and I have never meant it before as much as I do now"

I without a second's delay I crushed my lips to his. He was confused for a moment. I dint give him time to react and pushed him against the wall. I was suddenly so much aware of his body. He took a moment to respond but then he pressed his mouth harder on mine. He wasn't being careful at all and that was exactly what I wanted him to be at the moment. Reckless, with not a single care in world.

I grabbed handful of his hair and dragged him down roughly. He drew me closer and circled his hands around my waist not allowing any space between us. We were out of breath soon enough.

"Why don't we move this to my bed?"

"Our bed" I corrected "And oh god yes" I turned towards the bedroom to halt just at the door. "And Sherlock, I don't regret any of the moments we shared together. Not a single bloody one"

Sherlock smirked and followed my lead. Closing the door behind him, he hopped on me when I lay on the bed.

He winked and said "See, John, this is exactly why I sent Mrs Hudson away"

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: That's the end of the series! Thank you so much guys for following. **

**Again, I will be uploading a small JohnLock fic in next 28 hours. You guys can check it out if you like. :)**

**Thank you so much! ^_^**


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